


Red Flags

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, snarly idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Portugal and Turkey live in the same building in Rio, and have some disagreements about where Turkey should hang his flag (aka,notover Portugal’s balcony).





	Red Flags

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.

“How many times must I tell you to move your flag?!”

Turkey snorts, lazily rolling his shoulder that isn’t braced against the lintel of his own apartment’s doorway like he isn’t the _slightest_ bit bothered about the irritated Nation who is standing before him. “I moved it.”

“Lower!” Portugal snaps, because this is the _third_ time he has had to march his way up to Turkey’s apartment on the floor directly above his about the issue, and Turkey has long since exhausted his patience. Once is an accident. Twice is a misunderstanding. _Three times?_ The bastard is doing it on purpose.

Down the hallway and slowly heading for the stairs, a mixed crowd of some of the poor Slovenians and Azerbaijanis who have to share a building with them wisely decide to pick up their pace and disappear.

 _“Well,”_ Turkey drawls, dragging out this encounter even longer than necessary, and, despite the mild air, making Portugal feel annoyed and overheated in his unzipped sports jacket, “you didn’t specify.”

Portugal _glowers_. “Tolo, I will very _specifically_ kick you in the crotch if you do not _move your damn flag_.” It has been over a _week_ , and most of the sunlight coming into Portugal’s apartment is getting filtered through red cloth and making the place look like a particularly gory crime scene. (Not to mention the time when Portugal had tried to go out onto his balcony for a smoke, and the wind had _whapped_ Turkey’s hanging flag back into his face. His nose still stings from the indignity.) “I want to see the natural scenery from my balcony, not the crescent on _al bayrak_.”

“Didn’t you see enough of the scenery when you owned the place?” In poor mimicry of the athletes in the Olympic Village with them, Turkey stretches again, arms above his head and shirt riding high. Either the old man has put his back out or he’s _trying_ to entice Portugal into hurting him by offering a larger target to aim at. “I don’t see why I should indulge yer nostalgia.”

 _“Turquia,”_ Portugal hisses, using the last of his restraint - because he will get in trouble if he starts a war by slamming his heel hard into another Nation’s hairy balls (even if the bastard deserves it). He refuses to fiddle with the beads of his kombolói around his wrist, a sign of agitation (or badly needing a smoke, the result of too much agitation), so instead occupies his hands pulling out his ponytail, regathering the strands of hair stuck to the back of his neck and tying it all up again.

“Fine, _fine.”_ Turkey’s arms drop again, sighing wearily like _he_ is the one being imposed on here. “I’ll shift it so it doesn’t hang in yer balcony.”

“Or cover any Portuguese flags,” says Portugal. Being specific.

“Or cover any Portuguese flags,” Turkey adds, before squinting at him rather dourly. “Suspicious bastard.”

“I find it best not to overestimate your morals.” Portugal sniffs, and casts a glance down the hallway again. Empty, and the doors are all shut, both Portuguese and Turkish alike. Good - no witnesses. “Or lack thereof.”

Turkey straightens. _“Right._ Just for that, it’s gonna cost you.”

 _“‘Just_ for that!’” Portugal doubts it; the only thing Turkey has ever given him without conditions attached has been _trouble_. “I doubt you weren’t planning to charge from the beginning; I’ve been in your bazaars -”

Turkey rather pointedly lifts an eyebrow. “So _that’s_ what ye’re calling it these days.”

So that’s -

Red scorches its way up Portugal’s cheeks, as much irritation (at himself, for setting that one up) as embarrassment. _“That is not-!”_

“Whatever you say, Portekiz,” Turkey drawls, and Portugal has gone straight back to wanting to kick him, particularly as Turkey _drags_ his gaze from Portugal’s head to foot and back again, a smirk starting on his face somewhere in between. “Gonna pay?”

Portugal sets his jaw, muscles locking tight across his body. _(No starting wars when the Olympic flag is still flying.)_ “Pay _what?”_ He has never been and - God Almighty preserve him - never _will_ be such a fool or in such dire straits he will hand the likes of _Turkey_ a metaphorical blank cheque. Portugal wants to know what he owes upfront.

Turkey considers him some more (considers _nothing_. Portugal _knows_ that look on the other Nation’s face, and Turkey is making Portugal wait on purpose just to be an ass). “…A kiss.”

Portugal baulks. “You must be joking.” He is _very_ not in the mood for romance, and half the walls in this building are temporary ones and too thin to slam Turkish fat asses into for a violent _bite_.

“A kiss or you get to watch the beautiful Brazilian sunset through the red of my flag, Portekiz.” One of England’s phrases about situations like this keeps floating to the forefront of Portugal’s mind: _he has you over a barrel_. Portugal is _not_ terribly fond of the expression, or any of the imagery it currently conjures, especially when the _he_ in question is Turkey. “It’s not so much to ask in payment, is it? More a token of goodwill. Think of the Olympic spirit.”

Portugal scowls, feeling the last of his patience unravel. “If you gave a shit for the _Olympic spirit_ , you’d do it for _free_.”

“Well, maybe _yer_ rates are so low -”

Portugal cracks. He might be old compared to the babes he reared (and ruined) in the East and the New Worlds, but he’s still a great deal more sprightly than _Turkey_. If the Turkish _tolo_ wants a kiss to finally stop being a nuisance, _fine_ , Portugal will give him a kiss and wet dreams to occupy his godforsaken hand and hide for the rest of the Olympics, snapping forwards so he can grab Turkey by the throat of his shirt and _yank_ him down against the aggressive snarl of Portugal’s mouth.

Too tall for his own good, Turkey almost overbalances, steadying his weight on the doorframe beside them. (If he had tried to steady his weight on _Portugal,_ Portugal would have let him hit the floor.) Portugal bruises Turkey’s lips until Turkey parts them for his tongue, darting in to claim the other’s mouth before Turkey gets his wits back enough to be annoyed. Exactly as expected, his chases Portugal’s tongue back to Portugal’s mouth - and tries to fuck it, crudely, the taste of him bittersweet with dark coffee (that he _has_ to have bought outside the Village) and flowery, powdered sugar. Some things don’t change.

Portugal rakes the bastard with his teeth for his impudence, predictable or not, angles his head and soothes the sting just enough with heavy laps of his own tongue, the hot _hah_ s of breath caught between both their lips. When Turkey’s hand settles wide on his hip though, enough is enough - and Portugal pushes Turkey off him with his fist, breaking their liplock and wiping the wetness from his mouth with the back of his hand.

They both pause. Breathe. Get their breath back and eye each other like wary beasts.

Naturally, Turkey is the first to break the quiet. (Turkey is _always_ the first to break any sort of quiet.) “Anyone ever tell you you suck tongue like whores suck cock?”

Portugal is very conscious of his mouth now, and the way his swollen lips draw back from his teeth. “…And comments like that are exactly why it is _only_ prostitutes sucking your cock these days, Turquia.” He’s going to be tasting coffee and rose-scented sugar at the back of his throat for the rest of the day now. Turkey would do _so much better_ with these things - with _Portugal_ \- if only he did the talking with his body rather than with whatever rattles around in his skull passing for a brain. “Don’t talk as much. Take me out to dinner next time if you want a kiss so _very_ badly. And _move the damn flag.”_


End file.
